


Champions of the Just

by rapunzariccia



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, more characters to be added with later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:32:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rapunzariccia/pseuds/rapunzariccia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are those peacekeepers.</p><p> </p><p>Inspired by the CG promo image of the inquisitor, companions and advisors standing around the war table á la The Last Supper. Did some research into the 12 Apostles and their order and was intrigued about the characters and their connections with the disciples. Written before the author was able to play Inquisition, so likely contradicts all sorts of canon.<br/>(Features my personal Inquisitor, a female mage Trevelyan.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cullen

**Author's Note:**

> Cullen takes the position of Bartholomew the Apostle, sometimes known as Nathanael in the Gospel of John. Inspiration lifted from John 1:46-1:51.

The world operates as normal right up until the news comes. _Normal_ is a strange concept these days, and does not necessarily mean _peaceful_ , but it allows people to think it is only a matter of time until things return to the way they were. Times are strange, but it is not the end of days.  
  
Then, very quickly, it seems as though it _is_ the end of days. All efforts to end the war have been for naught. It does not matter which side they support, because the void is going to take them all. They have made so many mistakes that they will be lucky to make it to the Maker's side once they die. If they are unlucky... it doesn't bear thinking about, but it seems impossible that anything could be more hellish than the world they live in now.  
  
“There will be no more peace talks.”  
  
Peace seems to be further and further from their grasp no matter what they do to grab at it. Once upon a time, there were such things as _second chances_ , but it seems they have used every last one up. In another lifetime, they could have resorted to compromise. They have been shown time and again that this can no longer happen. They should have paid closer attention to Kirkwall and Halamshiral, but the past is past and the damage is done. The war is being waged, but every battle might as well be a loss for all the good it is doing. Give one side an inch and the other demands a mile. Not even demons appearing will be enough to unite the world. He remembers the Blight too clearly.  
  
It is the end of days and peace has been reduced to being just a word, but they are not excused from their duty. There is still work to be done and people to help. Haven might be gone, but plenty of questions have been left in its wake, and they do not have the luxury of stopping. The world has not quite ended yet.  
  
The Divine's Hands come to life and start shaping things quickly, as though these are motions they are used to carrying out. They talk only briefly before Cassandra is gone, and Leliana informs the two that remain only that she must send a message before she too disappears. Neither one leaves anything behind – not even a sense of the urgency that seems to have overcome them. There is work that he and Josephine could be doing in turn, but neither of them leaves to do it. The world becomes this dim room: a man, a woman, a candle, and a great deal of despair.  
  
News filters through to them after a time, but it is nothing that they do not already know. It is not Haven that is gone, but its temple, which hurts worse. The sky above it has ripped clean open, and all sorts of monsters have come crawling out of it. It is like the darkspawn left instructions to every other creature of darkness, inviting them to infect the world any way they see fit. Already fighting has started where it had previously been put on hold. He feels a fool for hoping that the talks could happen and things could be resolved without any more bloodshed. Val Royeaux proved that weeks ago, but they, stubborn creatures, had forced the issue again.  
  
When Leliana returns, the candle has guttered so low that he thinks her a shadow at first. She takes the time to light another before she speaks.  
“Would you believe Andraste has sent us a soldier?”  
  
She is smiling in a way that he takes to mean she is not lying. Cullen and Josephine exchange dubious looks. If Andraste could send a soldier, surely she would come herself. Still, this is a single gem of good news nestled in the blanket of everything else that has happened this day, and there is no reason not to believe.  
  
“Where is this soldier?” Josephine asks. “Will they help us?"  
“We can only hope. Cassandra will be returning with them soon... and we will explain our needs then. They have come from Haven.”  
“Haven,” Cullen snorts. It already feels like a dirty word. “Haven is gone, and its people are dead or worse. Can anything good truly come from there?”  
  
He is silenced by the Hand before he can continue.  
  
“Come and see.”

 

* * *

 

The soldier is a mage, because the world has a terrible sense of humour. She is slight and wan and looks terrified, standing in stark contrast to the Seeker by her side. Nearly all of them have seen true battle, and this mage seems a child to all of them. She looks so tired that it would be easy to pass her off as unwell at a glance. Nothing about her seems worthy of being Andraste's Herald.  
  
Still, she is pleasant enough. She bows her head to each of her advisors in turn and says precious little of all she encountered at Haven. Perhaps it is because she cannot face fresh fear. Perhaps it is because she has already put the past behind her. Both thoughts prove themselves wrong when she hears of their would-be plans and stiffens.  
  
“Templars?” she asks, and her tone sparks his temper. She looks at him directly, Maker damn her, as if it matters that he once belonged to the Order. He is not one of those men that marched on Circles to do the Chantry's duty.  
  
The torchlight hits her face just so as she turns to look at Cassandra for reassurance, and for a moment he sees Meredith standing before him, young and uncertain. He is not one of those men. Not any longer.  
  
The anger leaves him, but his ideas do not. He looks her in the eye as she turns back to him, and she does not flinch away from him. “They would work just as well as the mages. They could suppress the magic, deal with the problem and make sure that it is sealed away, that it does not spread-”  
“And you have no faith that the mages could do the same?” Leliana cuts across him. This problem is familiar ground, and as he starts to argue his case he feels that maybe the end of days are a little further off than he first thought.  
  
They are interrupted, of course. This is no time for bickering, and neither party can be trusted to act on their behalf. Neither party trusts them enough to talk, not so soon after Haven. The ambassador tells them what is going to happen – she is no warrior like the rest of them, but just as strong where it matters – and leaves to put her plan in motion. End of the world or no, there is work to be done.  
  
Silence falls upon those that remain, and he feels her gaze on him again. It has only been a short time since she has been presented to them, but already he regrets thinking of her as a child. There is steel at her core. Perhaps she is a soldier of sorts after all.  
  
“You are a templar?"  
“I _was_ a templar.” He makes sure to put emphasis on tense. If she is to judge him, then she ought to know at least that he is no threat to her.  
“I didn't think it was possible to just... leave. I thought you were like us.”  
Meredith comes to mind once more. The Herald might be right. Between the lyrium and their duty, templars were as confined as their charges. “The situation called for it.”  
  
The silence returns as she continues to evaluate him. It has been a long time since he was scrutinised in such a fashion, and he chases that thought as far back as it allows him. Was Ferelden truly the last time his motivations had been questioned? Kirkwall had accepted him without question and allowed him to rise far higher than he had ever expected to.  
  
He is still thinking when she comes to her own conclusions. “I trust you,” she says simply. “There is no deceit in you. You are obviously capable, no matter your background. If Cassandra thinks you are fit to advise...” she pauses to glance at the warrior, who nods, “Then I think so, too.”  
  
Though she is free to leave, the Herald chooses to stay and listen to them a little longer. She learns what type of men now serve under her, and what they can do, and what she can expect to have asked of her, and takes it all in stride. It is only when she yawns – and so widely, it is a wonder he does not hear her jaw crack with the effort – that the discussion draws to a close. He gathers up what is his, and Cassandra announces she will show the Herald to her room. Leliana picks up what Josephine has left behind, and smiles her cryptic smile.  
  
“What a strange day this has been,” she says to the room at large. “Andraste sends one of her own to fight with us, a mage and a templar agreeing so easily to work together... Great things have happened here.”  
“You will see greater things than that,” the Herald says through another yawn, even as she is led away. “Wait 'til you see the heavens open, and the spirits of the Fade descend on us all.”


	2. Vivienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vivienne takes the position of James, son of Alphaeus, who is sometimes known as James the Lesser. Minor inspiration was taken from Mark 2:13 - 2:17, and a little research was done into what the role of a tax collector was. I feel like the lack of information on this disciple might make this chapter the weakest link of them all.

She has many names.  
  
Some are kinder than others, but none of them she has chosen for herself. The world has titled her according to its own rules and shaped her into a lady she might not have chosen to be, with a backbone of iron and a mind as sharp as the barbs that prick her.  
  
It is no accident that the barbs were created the same time her names were given her. _Madame de Fer_ gave her the illusion of power, but isolated her from those that could have been her allies. _Enchanter_ reminds her only that absolute power was not hers to wield within her Circle. Now order has broken down, her ambitions have had to be put on hold indefinitely. She has been given other names, some ridiculous and others insulting, and none have kept her from being herself.  
  
Every day brings the same routine. She laces herself into finery instead of paying undue attention to those beneath her, packing names into her clothing and draping insults around her shoulders. It is all a game. There is nothing _but_ the game. In this way she marks herself as part of the outside world, as something of more importance than any other mage in this stuffy tower.  
  
It does not bother her that her own people hate her. They are not her people, not truly. She gave them up when she was given names and ambition to cling to instead of a self-made success that might have worked for her elsewhere in Thedas. Anywhere else and her methods might have had her tried for treasonous practice – but then, what does the world outside of Orlais know of methods and results? The last Blight was cured through haphazard means, the Tevenes could not broker peace with the Qunari, and the Free Marchers were unable to stop a single mage from rebellion. It is as impossible to imagine a world as well-adjusted to the politics she knows and plays at as it is to imagine the world returning to its previous traditions. It is highly desirable but ultimately unattainable. With the war and the riots and much else besides, she is one of precious few who seem to want that life back. So many mages have fled the tower in the night, off to get drunk briefly on a freedom that they will not understand. The templars have simply vanished with no indication of what they might now be doing.  
  
A return to normality is out of the question. She ought not even be in the tower, but Her Imperial Majesty suggested it would be for both of their benefits if she stayed. A handful of chevaliers returned to protect her from any templars insistent enough to return and attempt to complete their annulment, but they do not fill her with confidence. They are the very same kind that patrol the streets of Montsimmard, lazy and ineffectual where it matters. Safety would be better provided by the other few remaining mages in the tower, but that would require her abandoning her own morals and declaring herself as their equal. That is something she is not yet prepared to do.  
  
In truth, she is not entirely sure what she is and is not prepared for. Order has been lost and rigidity with it. What is a Circle-bound enchanter to do should she need to contact the empress? She is here to protect herself from the inevitability of future attacks directed at the court, but in truth she feels as though she has been pushed to the side so Celene does not seem as though she has affiliated with one side or another. The game that Vivienne plays is a watered-down version of the court's own. She recognises the stakes and the moves, but that does not mean that she has to like it. The empress can play at neutrality all she likes, but keeping that dark-haired foreign witch by her side screams another story.  
  
It is admirable, the way she retains her power.  
  
The door opens without even so much as a knock while she is mulling over these thoughts. The afternoon sun playing off what she can see of the lake has often been a backdrop to her full silences, but she does not think so deeply when there are others around. Staring into nothing is considered vapid, and rightly so. The game must be played at full alertness, and one cannot give off such a sense if their moments of private consideration are rudely interrupted.  
  
Those damned chevaliers should go on a course of manners before they are allowed to run rampant. They treat her as though they are on the same level as her, with none of the carefully mastered fear and wariness that she is used to from the templars. On top of that they think the tower as just another place to guard ineffectually. Her permission is not asked before a group of three are ushered in. This is her place, her chamber, and her power means nothing. She resolves immediately to demand a different guard when she next writes to Celene.  
  
The group is several pieces of different puzzles that were never meant to fit together. They have been forced into their roles the way a child would refuse to look for another piece. It is obvious from a single glance. They stand with a body's space between each of them, unused to one another's presences yet, and each holds themselves in a manner different to the last. The tallest, a lady warrior, has hardness etched into her every line. It shows in her brow, her jaw, her scars. The dwarf beside her looks like any other tagalong waiting for his share of the coin, but there is a certain heaviness in the way his shoulders sag that sings of resigned fate. The other human is a girl trying to shrink herself out of existence, as though the walls are pressing in heavy on every side around her. From the way the warrior glares at her, it is clear that she is expected to be in charge. Vivienne has no sympathy for her.  
  
“Lady... First Enchanter?”  
  
Once upon a time the mistake might have brought a smile to her face, but not now. It feels like a strike surrounded by every other injustice that she is forced to bear now. She straightens instead and stares the girl right in the eye. It is a struggle not to call just a little of her power to the fore, to chill the room and have her gravitas known. Even without that display, her presence has the girl stumbling over her next words.  
  
"We have come from Ferelden – well, all over – in the hopes of your giving us an audience. We're, well, we are the-”

The warrior has rolled her eyes at this point and cuts smoothly across. The girl shuts up. “We represent a faction neutral to the war in Orlais, and between the mages and templars. I believe our... _tactical_ advisor sent word of our arrival ahead of us.”  
  
She has been awaiting the Inquisition, not a ragtag bunch of travellers who do not know how to work with one another. There is no point in remaining standing for this group. There is a chair to her left that she takes gracefully, one leg swung over one another. No longer does she fully face them, and if her meaning was not clear enough, her boredom can be tasted in her next words.  
  
“She did.”  
“Then you are already aware of who we are and what we have come to ask of you,” the warrior continues. She has given up pretending that the shy girl is in control of the situation.  
“I am.”  
  
The letter from one Sister Nightingale sits atop her dresser still, folded back up carefully once it had been read. The Inquisition's neutrality is suspect at best. She has been told that they will seek a future that is beneficial to everyone, that will stop the fighting and return the Age to peace. She doubts this is possible. Not everyone will want a new future. It is for the best that the fighting is stopped, everyone is agreed on that, but for some a return to tradition would be for their benefit. She is one of them, and cannot understand how anyone would want to move on to something new and unknown. And now she is being asked to help this group that would usher in such an age.  
  
Maker's breath, but the Inquisition must only share a single brain cell amongst the lot of them. Had they asked something different of her, duped her, thrown themselves at her feet and begged for her aid against an unforgiving world....  
  
The girl has mustered what is left of her willpower as she takes half a step forward and attempts to square her shoulders. She ought to have taken the hint and led her group away, out past the insufferable chevaliers and back to wherever they came from.  
“Please, mistress,” she asks. Her voice is quiet and almost quivering. Were she any weaker, her knees probably would have given out. “Will you not at least listen to us? We have come a long way and risked so much already. This Circle is the first haven I have known since we left to find you. Even if you will not grant us your time, we would stay in this familiar comfort for as long as we might be able to tarry... provided you will keep us, of course. And perhaps the chance to talk further might present itself...”  
  
She rambles like the apprentice mage she likely is. How incredible, that the return to normalcy rests on such a child's shoulders.  
“Which Circle do you come from?” she asks instead of answering the question.  
“From Ostwick, mistress. In the Free Marches.”  
“And what do you intend to do with the world?”  
  
The girl takes it into serious consideration, something that seems to irk the warrior beside her. In what Vivienne suspects is a complete change of events, the mage has the right of it to think so deeply.  
  
“Cassandra would have me answer that we have come to heal it,” the girl says after a time. “But I don't think that is entirely correct. I don't intend to do anything with the world except help out where I can. I have been given duties and fellows to help me,” and she gestures at her companions, “but I have not come to- to call the righteous to my side and aid where possible. I will do all I can in my power to help the parts of the world that are sick, but beyond that... I do not know. I intend to do the best I can, and nothing else.”  
  
It is an honest answer, though muddled. This child truly does not know what is required of her, nor what lies ahead. The Sister that wrote her earlier did not warn her of such incompetence in the upper ranks of their so-called neutral faction. Instead it was hinted that the one true saviour, the alleged Herald of Andraste herself would arrive and seek out her help.  
  
One more whisper in the Herald's ear should not make much of a difference. The game will continue.  
  
“Stay awhile and dine with me,” she offers.


	3. Varric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric stands in the position of Andrew the Apostle. Inspiration drawn from Mark 13:1-4.

_Most Holy,_   
  
_The Champion has long since fled Kirkwall, and the apostate with him. The situation here is surprisingly stable, although the cityfolk do not trust outsiders with their information. The Coterie is still active, but by all accounts much more threatening than it was previously. We have decided not to deal with them on this occasion. The stability here is mostly thanks to the knight-captain's leadership, but men and women have been offering their services to restore the city as best they can. The Chantry remains ruined, but houses and infirmaries have been built for the ailing and homeless. Our investigation initially turned up precious little, but we have since heard of and discovered Varric Tethras, a dwarf still living here who associated with the Champion. We have questioned him and confiscated a journal that sheds further light on the matter. Particular entries have been marked for ease of reading. We await a response with further orders._   
  
_Your humble servant as always,_   
_Cassandra_

* * *

 

 _9:31_ \- _Drakonis_  
  
Bartrand got the jump on me today, the shitlicker. And he didn't even realise! There I was, all set to march right up to the kid that'll be the answer to this expedition, and he comes barrelling in, scattering buyers and sellers as he goes. Hawke – that's the kid's name, he's been serving indenture for the last year and getting up to all sorts of trouble – took his chance and jumped on Bartrand's back, and, well, you can already tell how well _that_ went. There's all sorts of reparations to be made now. Had to call in a favour to get the right atmosphere going, and now I've healer's bills to foot on top of so much other wasted coin setting this up. Typical.  
  
It's a step in the right direction, at least. I'm convinced of that much having spoken to him only today. He's a funny guy, but that's not just it – he's sharp, too. Protective. The kind of person that's difficult to figure out. His sister's a different matter – the sun shines out of her eyes, her heart's in a good place, and she's the whole reason the kid is even up here looking for work. Must be a desperate situation. There's a story there. Think I'll stick around to uncover it.  
  
  
 _9:31 – Solace  
  
_ The business with the Deep Roads ended up being a complete mess. Bartrand's disappeared – probably the most intelligent thing the bugger's ever done – and taken the loot with him, but it's not as though the spoils we collected aren't making a tidy return.  
  
 _(Two pages follow regarding the details of the Deep Roads. It matches with the story he told us.)_  
  
… So now there's no more Sunshine. I'm sad to see her go, we all are, but Hawke's devastated. Don't think we'll be seeing him out for a while.  
  
It doesn't feel like the fairest of tradeoffs, but on paper it seems to work just fine. A mage for a mage, one Warden for another. It's not the same. The place already feels a little darker. I know, I know, I make it sound like the damn sun was shining out of her every orifice, but I've never known a sweeter girl than Sunshine, and I'm not sure I ever will again. Anders will have to do. He already seems happy enough to follow Hawke around like the rest of us. We must be nuts to keep on doing what he asks. Not me, of course, I'm in it for the story, but there's no denying he's almost magnetic.  
  
Anders, though. He's something else. It's like he thinks he can feed the hungry with his body so long as he stays down in the squalor with them. It's been a few weeks since we met him and I still haven't seen him look well-rested, but the Deep Roads might have had a lot to do with that. I can't see the appeal in running ragged all the time, but then I'm not so bloody _good_ as the rest of them.  
  
  
 _9:34 – Harvestmere_  
  
Leandra's dead.  
  
None of us could have seen it coming. Hawke blames himself. I tried writing about it, but it didn't feel right, so I took it out. This part isn't mine to tell.  
  
Hawke's doing the thing where he bottles up and locks himself away again, like he did after the Deep Roads. Doesn't seem like he'll be ready to face the world any time soon, but who can blame him? Gave Aveline orders to station regular patrols around the estate, just in case there's more of them. Slipped some coin to one or two gangs as well, on the off chance the guards don't do their job properly. Aveline, if you're reading this, it's not that I don't trust you. Rivaini, if _you're_ reading this, do me a favour and keep it to yourself.  
  
None of us know what to do. Daisy's shut herself away in case the blood magic thing causes upsets, and I don't know if any of the others will feel like making it to the Hanged Man for a couple nights. Wouldn't seem right to get on with our lives when Hawke's being so... well.  
  
This is all kinds of fucked up. I'm not taking sides, but Meredith can't be entirely wrong if even high estate isn't enough to keep you untouchable. This isn't _Antiva_. We _have_ standards.  
  
 _(Considering the personal nature of this period, I was hesitant to press the dwarf for more details on Leandra Amell's death than necessary, and he was reluctant to give them freely. He mentioned that he had loosely documented the event, whereupon we seized the journal. Further questions revealed Mistress Amell met her fate at the hands of a necromancer, and that the Champion remained alone in private mourning for sixteen days before responding to a summons by Viscount Dumar.)_  
  
  
9:34 – Haring  
  
We all agreed to skip First Day when it comes around. We'll get together and have a few drinks, maybe play a game or two of cards, but nothing more. There's still time enough yet for that plan to fall through. Here's hoping there's no more uprisings in the works.  
  
This year has been a mess. First Bartrand, then that business with the slavers. We had a nice quiet patch around the summer, then all that blood mage business flared up again. Hawke's now alone in his estate, the viscount's seat is empty, and I get the feeling it'll take some time to recover from the Qunari thing.  
  
You can't make this shit up. Anyone reading this probably thinks I have – can't say I blame them. I'm not sure _I'd_ believe it if I hadn't seen it play out. I definitely threw in with the right lot, but all this excitement has got to wind down sooner or later. Here's hoping, anyway.  
  
Hawke's been named Champion, though he says he won't consider it an official title til next month. Paperwork and what have you. He's been making a lot of jokes these days, but he doesn't come to life like he used to. Poor kid. Who'd have thought he'd make it this high when he stepped off the boat?  
  
I don't think Meredith knows what she's done, though. She's the one that named him, and in front of so many nobles that the whole city down to the rats knew within a couple of hours. Sure, it's what Kirkwall probably needs at the moment – someone to step in when the mages and templars start badmouthing each other in the streets – but Hawke isn't as neutral as they'd like to think. I don't think even he's quite aware of it. He does like I do, tries to stay out of it completely. It's hard when Blondie's off on one, and he's taken to nodding absently when Broody's spitting fire, but he doesn't offer his own opinion. Wonder what they would have done if they'd heard him speak like he did today.  
  
We were walking by the Chantry. Given everything that's happened there, we've taken to avoiding it if we can, or at least ignoring it, but he stopped to stare.  
“What do you think?” he asks, like I'm privy to his thoughts. Maybe he wasn't talking to me at all. I didn't say anything, just let him stare up at the statues and the banners like they held all the answers. “How long before it falls?”  
“What are you talking about?”  
“The city,” he says. “It can't stand forever.”  
  
Sure it can. Kirkwall's always been here, since before the Ages began. It's had all sorts of people in it, slaves and mages and murders and revolutionaries, and it's still going strong. I've seen people come and go, be born and live and die here. I've helped more than a few with the latter.  
  
“You're starting to sound like Blondie,” I tell him. That made him smile. He looks less like a ghost when he does.  
“Maybe he has the right of it. Not just the mage thing. I just can't see this going forever.” He spread his arms wide, gesturing to the entire city and nearly hitting a nobleman trying to get by. I'm not sure what he meant exactly by _this_. I'm not sure I want to know. “And when everything finally goes ass over teakettle...”  
  
“Time and place, Hawke. Maybe it will, maybe it won't. Let's get you home.”  
  
  
 _9:37 – Justinian_  
  
It's been a month.  
  
I haven't seen any of them but Aveline since, and we don't stop to talk. What would we talk about? How we should have noticed something was going on? How one man's plan and another's decision to go along with it feels like the ultimate betrayl? There's nothing to be gained from guilting ourselves every day, and besides, there was nothing to see.  
  
No, that's a lie. We chose to turn a blind eye because that's what you do when you follow Hawke. I want to think we all warned him in our own ways – I know I did – but we aren't responsible for his thoughts and deeds. Doesn't stop it feeling like a punch to the gut. There were plenty of things to see, right from the beginning. The hopeless cause, the tragic hero trying to forge a better life for the people he thought deserving. He even held those blasted maps hostage all that time ago. And Hawke, idiot him, was too willing to help. I thought we'd topped out with the blood mage, the pirate and the slave, but apparently a renegade Warden was exactly what we were missing. And not _just_ a Warden, but an abomination as well!  
  
 _No ser, it's not too much trouble to directly oppose the templars, not even with the life of my baby sister and my long suffering mother at stake. Would you like me to polish your staff while I'm at it?_  
  
Idiot him, and idiot me. Blondie was trouble. We knew that from the beginning. Hawke was trouble too, and that's why I liked him. The pair of them together should have been more than enough to send me packing, even before they started making eyes at each other.  
  
Birds of a feather flock together. Maybe these surfacers know what they're talking about.


	4. Cole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this chapter took to get written. I thought my laptop would be better than it is - alas, no Inquisition for me until I can get my hands on a better computer - which took the wind out of my writing sails for a while, and then a fair amount of crap hit the fan irl for me, so it took a while to get back on my feet. I'll still be going with this, but probably at a slower rate than I had been writing before.
> 
> Cole stands in the position of Saint Peter, who denied Jesus three times and according to Matthew 14 was the exemplar of having little faith.

The streets of Val Royeaux are familiar to him after months of timid venturing, but still so strange that they make his head spin at times. Everything is colour and vibrancy, designed to intimidate those unused to the finery. It does its job well. What the world lacks, the people make up for.  
  
Everywhere he looks are swirling skirts and elaborate masks. What skin isn't covered is painted with delicate lines, reds and blues and ivories coming together to make up something resembling an overeager Fade creature desperate to join the world.  
  
At first, he was afraid that he would be noticed for his lack of colour. There was never any need for it in the Pit, and he refuses to stoop to stealing, even if he is a non-person. He needn't have worried. People cast him glances as often as they did in the Spire, although this isn't much comfort in the wide open world. He found a wide-brimmed hat that became his mask instead, able to cover his face if he tilted his head _just so_ , the perfect almost-disguise to help him get by in this colourful world.  
  
It comes as something as a shock to see people that wander through the streets without even that much. In Orlais, even the servants have painted faces. Those that do not bother pretending to be something they aren't are considered less than nothing, and do not venture into this area of the city – and yet the group that catches his eye do not seem to belong to the same caste.  
  
It's market day, and busy. Were they any other group of people, it would have been easy to lose them, but they stick out like a bleeding wound. Curious, he goes after them. It is something of a blessed relief when he sees the natural tone of skin again, weathered and scarred and slightly ruddy from the high sun. There are three heads that don't fit in, and they look like they follow a woman who fits in _too_ well, her strangely horned hat drawing a different sort of attention to herself. He gets close enough that he could reach out and touch the shoulder of the girl at the back of the procession.  
  
The crowd surges and cuts the group neatly in two. The horned lady and the next tallest foreigner keeps going, oblivious, but the two trailing behind stop dead. Cole nearly walks straight into the girl he has been watching. The crowds continue to swarm around them and he hears a few choice insults aimed at the idiots who don't know how to keep walking.  
  
The girl turns suddenly, and all the noise is sucked out of the world as he stares down into her eyes. She's looking up at him like she can see him clear as day, like she's known he's been following her. He's too fixated on her eyes – brown and incredibly sharp – to notice her dwarven companion trying to grab her hand and attention, or the way the crowds are still pressing around them. A familiar old panic starts to bubble up inside him, and he can't move. He's rooted to the floor and she keeps staring. She can see him. _She can see him_. No one has seen him since the rebellion.  
  
“Hi,” she says, and smiles. It breaks the spell, and all at once there is a gap in the crowd. He pushes into it and disappears.

 

* * *

  
  
The sky is clear that night. The moon is almost full, and bright enough that it is easy to avoid the holes in the street. It helps that the crowds have long since returned home. The streets are best wandered in the dark, when only the brave and the felons sneak around. No danger is posed towards men that cannot be seen, and he has never been scared of the darkness.  
  
He had kept following the girl despite himself. He had taken off his hat in an attempt to blend in and then kept to the busiest parts of the streets as he'd traced her steps. She hadn't turned around again, too busy with trying to regroup with the ones she'd temporarily lost. The dwarf he wasn't sure had seen him at all. They'd kept marching through the city, uncaring that their faces were bare or that people were staring at them because of the fact, and kept on until the crowds started to thin. It had been harder to stay hidden then, but he had gone with them far enough to see that they were headed towards the Imperial Palace.  
  
Important visitors, then.  
  
Not that their status makes much difference to him. It had been a breath of fresh air to see unfamiliar faces, although thinking about them now makes him think of Rhys, and of how lonely he is without him. There had been no time for goodbyes in the sewers, and now all of the mages that had escaped have disappeared into anonymity. It is the safest place for them, but he wishes there was at least the smallest clue to follow.  
  
“You're the one I saw earlier.”  
  
The quiet voice shakes him from his thoughts. He's wandered into some kind of garden with a waist-high maze, dimly lit by lamps a ways off. It's a grander location than he's used to. A furtive glance around reminds him that he's never wandered into the gardens of the Palace before.  
  
Standing in the middle of the maze is the girl from earlier, her eyes still fixed on him. It's hard to remember that the sunlight showed them as such a warm, rich colour, when the moonlight has them seem inky black. She's wearing some kind of long white nightdress and looks every bit a spirit. He can't help but compare her to the garish world of day.  
  
“You _are_ the one I saw earlier, right?”  
“... You remember me,” he answers, quiet, and quickly adds, “You can _hear_ me,” when she looks amused. This is the first time he has been able to speak to someone since the Spire fell. The revelation is more novel than he expected it to be – but then, he had not expected to be seen again.  
“You think I'd forget you?” she asks, just as quiet as him. “Kind of hard to, when yours is the only unpainted face I've seen since arriving here.”  
  
She takes a step away from the heart of the maze, and he starts. She brings up her hands quickly to reassure him, but the gesture is too sudden. He turns and runs and ignores the way she calls after him.

 

* * *

 

He stays scarce after that encounter. The sun rises again and watches him slip into the shadows it casts. He tries to sleep for a while, curled up in a space that won't bother anyone passing by, but finds himself unable to drift away. It's almost welcome. He thinks that he might see that girl again in the Fade, as ghostly there as she seemed in the night. It wouldn't be so easy to run away, and it isn't a risk worth taking.  
  
After a few hours it becomes clear that there is no point in staying there. The only thing he's gaining is a stiffness in his back and legs that will become painful if he doesn't move soon. Even though market day was yesterday, it's still busy enough to be noisy, and noisy enough that it's stopping him from falling asleep.  
  
He gives up on that task and sets about gathering himself up instead. He nearly forgets his hat before he leaves his crook, and is thankful for it when he steps outside. It's turned cloudy, but behind the cover the sun is still harsh and shines through any gaps in the clouds with a vengeance. The wind has picked up, too. The combination makes for a crowd that jostles and complains. He's watching a young boy beg his mother to buy him some berlingots when someone close to him mentions a Seeker's sun.  
  
Two men are standing casually beneath the awning of a stall and looking for all the world as though they belong in the street, but beneath their masks their eyes are darting around to check for eavesdroppers. Satisfied they haven't been heard, they continue. Cole moves to stand in front of them, all the better to hear.  
  
“Sure she's here with the Iron Lady?”  
“Absolutely. They're trying to gain audience with Celene, and I'm sure they'll get it, but they won't be staying long. They won't get the chance to.”  
“You said there's a mage with them?”  
“Not just any mage. The little blonde 'moiselle tagging along was the one from Ferelden, from the talks.”  
“Forget the bitch. Think the rest of the Seekers know?”  
“I'm sure they know, but they aren't working together. I've been looking into it. They're recruiting anyone that will listen to them, but they're having a hard time when they're so pro-mage. Think the templars are happy about it?”  
  
Cole's hands go sweaty at the mention of templars. He's had more than enough dealings with them to last him a lifetime. They've been suspiciously absent from the streets of Val Royeaux, but he's never for a moment thought they'd give up on their hunt for any errant mages. The Spire proved they had no sympathy, no kindness in their hearts.  
  
He is so lost in his anger that he nearly misses one man lean a little closer and add, “Tonight, after moonrise, at the Cathedral. They'll show just how angry they are then.”  
A knowing smile passes between them, and then both men stop as if they've seen darkspawn suddenly push their way through the marketplace. Their gazes are focused somewhere over Cole's left shoulder, and then they're melting into the crowd. Someone accidentally shoves an elbow into his side, and he takes a step back to get away from the sudden surge of people-  
  
-and collides with someone who grunts in surprise. He spins to – apologise? Check for damage? He's not sure – and finds himself staring into a painted white eye.  
“Maker, really? You _again_?”  
He only barely registers the voice, too shocked by the Seeker's crest staring at him, but the strong hand that grabs his wrist is enough to bring him back to reality. It belongs to a woman with the white eye on her chest, her face scarred and expression hard. Panic begins to build quickly inside his stomach, and he starts to pull away from her grip, to no avail.  
  
“You know this boy?”  
  
The question is directed away from him, at the girl who had spoken first – to the girl that seems to be set on running into him as much as possible. She's flanked by the horned lady – not true horns, he sees for the first times, but an intimidating hat – and the dwarf that had been walking with the girl before. There's a handful of Orlesian chevaliers that have stopped a few paces behind them, easily identifiable by the long-chinned masks and the yellow surcoats they wear. The maskless foreigners have no such uniformity.  
  
The girl with the brown eyes shrugs. “I've seen him once or twice since we arrived. I don't think he means any harm.”  
“Once or twice? Has he been following us, Inquisitor?”  
Her grip becomes even tighter around his wrist, and Cole can't help the tiny noise that escapes him.  
“Cassandra, let go of him, you're hurting him.”  
“ _Are you following us_?” the Seeker hisses at him. She is even more terrifying than Lambert had been.  
“I'm not,” he cries out, as the girl says, “Cassandra, stop it!”  
  
She lets his arm go all at once. Cole has been fighting the grip so much that he nearly trips over backwards in his haste to get away from the threat. He spares a second's glance for the girl, who for the first time is not looking at him but seems a terrifying force that even the Seeker is deferring to, and then the moment passes. He is halfway down the street and running for the shadows again before they can grab him again.

 

* * *

 

One heart-pounding dash and a fitful nap later, Cole wakes to find the sun beginning to sink. Beside him lays a dagger that he has checked on every time his eyes have opened. It is still there, as it has been every time he has stirred before, and his hidden spot has remained hidden. Nothing has come to harm him.  
  
His dreams have been full of tall women and scary voices come to take him away. The rest has not left him feeling better. The muscles in his back feel as though they are going to stay tense for the rest of his life, and the presence of his only weapon is not enough to allay any of his fears.  
  
He is awake and ready to move – no matter how undetected his sleeping spot is, staying still makes it more likely that someone could stumble upon him at any moment. It is better to keep moving and to keep looking behind him. He tries rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he begins to walk, to no avail. Restfulness will dance just out of his reach for some time.  
  
As he yawns, he remembers the masked men talking quietly amongst themselves earlier in the day. They had mentioned the Cathedral, a beautiful building where the nobility went to pay lip service. The only true Orlesian gods are money and secrecy, but the populace seems to think erring on the side of religious caution is a wise move. They are not wrong. He adjusts his path to take him toward the holy place, and settles into a shadow across the street from it. Going inside does not occur to him.  
  
Just before the next yawn creeps up on him, he notices the Seeker's sun approaching. Dread courses through him and he prepares to run, but this time he has not been spotted. The woman waits for her party to catch up – and this time only the sharp-eyed girl accompanies her – before they enter together.  
  
His muscles do not relax, but he stays where he is. The sun is sinking ever lower, and the shadows are becoming ever longer. The light is just low enough that the colours of the Cathedral's stained glass are hard to make out when the templars come. Only five have turned up, but they are in full plate, and their weapons are drawn. They too enter the sanctuary.  
  
It is not long before the sound of battle reaches his ears. Glances up and down the street reveal that no one is coming to help either side; either the templars have harried any stragglers on, or the usually religious people have decided that tonight is a good night to abandon prayers. There is a scream from inside, and he thinks of the rebellion at the Spire, the way the templars did not hesitate to press forward and slaughter anyone who stood in their way.  
  
The scene that greets him in the prayer hall is easy enough to understand. One templar has fallen, and a sconce has toppled from its resting place on the wall on top of the body. The two women are fighting two templars each, and the smaller girl is having a harder time of it. Her robes are bloodied and she's breathing hard. Cole does not miss the way her face lights up when he slides up behind one of her attackers and sinks his knife into the unprotected point between helm and back plate. The other templar halts the attack to look for the new foe and finds himself taken off his feet by a surge of electricity.  
  
That leaves two, and between the three of them, they are taken down quickly. The Cathedral is a mess. There is blood on the floor and bodies strewn everywhere. A hanging on the wall is charred from an errant spell. If the Maker is real, Cole hopes He has turned His eyes elsewhere for the moment.  
  
The Seeker seems to think the same. She looks him over once, quickly, and then looks at the mage girl, who is holding her arm tightly.  
“Can you walk?”  
“Yes. Let's get out of here.”  
There is an urgency in their words that suggests that more trouble might be coming. The Seeker grabs his arm as they stride towards the exit, but this time he does not struggle. He goes with them without saying a word until they are three streets away, where he is released.  
  
“The templars come to kill you,” he says before either of them can accuse him of following them again. His voice is awed, and the two women exchange a dubious expression.  
“You knew about this?” the bloodied one asks. He shakes his head, shrugs, doesn't meet her eyes.  
“I heard about it in the market. I didn't know what was going to happen. I just thought...”  
“You thought what?” the Seeker demands, stepping forward. “You _just thought_ you would come and watch a fight? That you would come and watch the templars? _Us?_ ”  
“Cassandra, stop,” the girl with the sharp eyes says. She is ignored. The Seeker draws her sword.  
“Who are you?” she demands. Cole says nothing. “ _Who are you_?”  
  
There's a movement behind her, and then a force springs up between them. Cole is protected, and the woman can't get to him. Magic. The girl with the bloodied robes has her hand up and is stopping the interrogation from escalating further, her brown eyes cold and hard.  
“Stop it,” she repeats. “He did nothing but help us in there. He saved my life.”  
“I will not trust on that alone, Inquisitor,” the tall woman says, but she lowers her sword all the same. She does not, however, sheath it. The barrier between them stays up.  
  
Cole watches the girl shrug in agreement and turn to him. “That's fair. What's your name? I've seen you a couple of times. Are you lost? Hurt? Did you need to speak with us?”  
The Seeker makes a disapproving noise. The girl ignores her.  
“You remember me,” he says, tone still belying his surprise. The girl cocks a confused eyebrow and smiles like it's a silly statement.  
“Of course I do. Didn't I say before? Yours is the only face here not painted. Kind of hard to forget you.”  
  
It doesn't make sense. He says nothing, trying and failing to understand. No one has seen him since the Spire. No one should be able to see him.  
“What's your name?” the girl asks again. “I'm Marise.”  
“... Cole.”  
“Are you following us?” He shakes his head. “Then your being here tonight was really just coincidence? You didn't know we were going to come, or that templars were going to come for us?” This time, a shrug. The scarred woman rolls her eyes and makes another incredulous noise.  
“You told us you saw him at the Palace. At night. What kind of coincidence has us followed to the Palace?”  
  
Marise frowns, and Cole suspects that this will be a harder trouble to work his way out of. He thinks of Rhys, how he did not believe at first the way he could disappear without any trouble.  
“That's actually a good question. How did you get in the gardens unseen? There were guards around that night, and I don't think they'd let in someone that wasn't painted from head to toe without a good reason.”  
“People don't see me,” he says. This does not work as an explanation on its own, and his mind works wildly as he tries to explain further. “They can't. Or don't. Or they do, but they forget me. Most people do. I thought you would forget me.”  
  
“Leliana mentioned something similar,” the Seeker says quietly. He is not meant to hear, but he does anyway. “Her explanation was muddled, at best. Enchanter Rhys of the White Spire wrote the details for her-”  
“Rhys!” he says suddenly, and he has both of their attentions again. “Rhys,” he says again. He feels foolish. “I knew him. We were friends. I haven't seen him for a long time.”  
  
This seems to be the tipping point of information, and he watches them share what looks like a silent conversation, held entirely with rolling eyes and eyebrows shooting up and placating hand gestures. Eventually the silence is broken by the smaller girl.  
“You think it's important?”  
“I think it wouldn't be clever to leave him running around Orlais unchaperoned.”  
  
He already knows what is going to happen. The Seeker will take him roughly by the wrists again and drag him to some fortress worse than the Pit. There will be more Seekers and more templars that can see him and hurt him, and then he will have no more freedom. They will demand answers to terrifying questions, and when they are done with him they will throw him back to the darkness to rot. Val Royeaux is a scary, unfriendly place, but he would prefer to wander its streets for eternity than be taken prisoner again.  
  
“We won't hurt you,” Marise says as though she can read his mind. He stares at her, and she holds his gaze. It is not so dark that he thinks her eyes are black. To demonstrate her point, she lowers her hand, and the force separating him from them fizzles away to nothing. Neither woman makes any movement toward him.  
“I don't trust her,” Cole says, and jerks his head at Cassandra, unwilling to look at her directly. “She's a Seeker. I won't go with you. I won't be your prisoner.”  
“You won't be a prisoner-”  
“I don't trust her.”  
  
He risks a glance and sees the warrior's brows knitting together tightly. The refusal is not sitting well with her, but to her credit, she has not marched forward to take him regardless. He does not expect her to speak gently to him.  
“Would you be able to trust me, given enough time?”  
  
There are too many possibilities to give a straight answer. “I don't know. Maybe. I don't know.”  
“She protects me,” the mage says. “I would be dead a hundred times over without her at my back. You might not be able to trust her now, but you will, if you are with us.”  
  
Something in his expression must show his mistrust, for she turns from him and faces the Seeker instead. “Take ten steps back and put up your sword,” she says. There is an edge to her words that brooks no argument, and the warrior does as asked without complaint. With no distraction, Cole becomes the centre of attention again. “Was what she said true? Were you involved with the rebellion at the White Spire?”  
“... Yes.”  
  
There is no point hiding the truth if they are already aware of it. If he resists, he will be taken prisoner. If he tells the truth, perhaps they will take pity on him. Neither option is comforting.  
“You helped the mages? You stopped what could have been full-scale slaughter?”  
“I... yes?”  
  
If he was already confused, it is nothing to what he feels when her face lights up and she directs a great, toothy grin his way.  
“I know this is sudden – and you have every right to refuse if you want – but would you want to help more of us? Mages, I mean. We could always use more help, and I thought – if you're sympathetic...”  
“Inquisitor, is this wise?”  
  
Marise turns and lets her back face Cole, the most sincere show of trust she can afford him.  
“I don't see why not. If he is the same person Leliana fought beside, he might be perfect. If not, he should still be able to help us. And if he doesn't want to stay, he doesn't have to. You can ask whatever questions you might have back at Skyhold, too.”  
There seems to be no argument against this logic, and the Seeker lets herself shrug approval. The mage turns back to Cole.  
  
“So? Will you come with us?”  
The whole thing seems far too good to be true. He looks into her eyes again, and she holds his gaze as she did in the marketplace. “And if I don't believe anything you say?”  
  
She grins again.  
“Oh, you all have so little faith. _Please_. You will.”


End file.
